Worth it's weight in bread?

As promised (more to myself), I’m trying to blog more regularly, so here it goes…

The past week it has been very warm in Toulouse, at least in the fifties, but very rainy and foggy. Saturday and Sunday however were gorgeous days here, sunny and in the sixties, meaning that everyone came out to sit by the river and enjoy some wine and company. It felt like summer and I fell a little bit more in love with this city. 

Ana and I next to the river

Ana, Amy Alberto and I

Michalea

Michaela and Alberto deep in discussion

I hosted the Mangesters last Thursday at my house and made empanadas from Venezuela which my roommate Gabby showed me how to make. Aside from having to cook them for 10 people, they were actually really easy to make. Gabby and I bought the corn flour together on Sunday from a specialty foods store, to which you only add water until it achieves the consistency you want. Then, you clean and oil a plastic bag with vegetable oil which you use as your surface to roll out individual balls of dough with your hands. You place whatever you want in the middle (I chose ham & cheese, spinach & herb cheese, and tuna, roasted red peppers & corn), then use the plastic bag to fold the empanada in half over itself, and use a small bowl to seal it shut and remove the excess. I fried them in vegetable oil and served them with rice, braised tri-color peppers, and a baby spinach and rocket salad with grapefruit, currants, pear and pistachios. Monday we ate at Loren’s and she had 3 kinds of stuffed vegetables – zucchini, potatoes and tomatoes which she filled with their pureed insides and sausage meat. We’ve been doing as the French do and taking advantage of eating the Galettes de Roi that are in bakeries all month long. Whoever finds the favor inside their slice buys the cake for the next dinner.

Empanadas frying

Peppers sizzling

Happy people

The cakes, which are nothing more than sweet bread with sugar on top and are the size of a dinner plate, cost around 10-15 euros a piece. A friend here told me that she was talking with the French woman she lives with about the cost of these galettes which turned into a discussion on bread in general, and what a scam boulangeries (bakeries) are. And I guess, when you think about the cost of a kilo of flour, and how many baguettes and brioches can be made from that, sold for around a euro a pop, that’s decent money. This woman also said that 10 years ago, when France was still on the Franc, the cost of a baguette was 1 Franc, meaning, that in ten years the price of bread has increased 7 fold. Allegedly, allegedly, bakers are giving doctors a run for their money in terms of profit. Judging by the way the French consume bread, I’m inclined to think this is not altogether unlikely. What do you think about a French style bakery in Stamford, CT?

Things have been going well at school, the teacher in charge of me is trying to change around my schedule a bit so that other teacher’s classes can have a turn with me, and perhaps (hopefully) use my time a bit more productively. I’m really glad I’m in a high school, because sometimes when I talk to some of my friends who are at écoles primaires or maternelles (pre-schools and elementary schools) it just sounds like babysitting. I was talking with my friend Amy from Massachusetts who tried to do a lesson last Monday on MLK Jr. with her oldest class of 11-year-olds to give herself a break from teaching colors, numbers and barnyard animals. At the end of her lesson she asked the students if they had any questions the only student to raised his hand was burning to know, “Do you have tornadoes in England?” For the most part, I can teach fairly advanced cultural lessons to my students and in some we can have more or less normal conversations and even debates. Right now I’m working on WikiLeaks with some of my older kids.

I also wanted to share with you the trials and tribulations of my friend and fellow assistant here, Michaela. Michaela, who, incidentally went to the Mead School in North Stamford, has had extraordinary difficulties getting settled in here, and almost seems to be our personal lightening rod for enduring French bureaucratic nightmares and provoking the kind of folk work in the customer service sector. Firstly, it took Michaela well over a month to find housing. She stayed in this horrendous Formula 1 “hotel” for the first few weeks until some of us got places and then she began staying with us. Incidentally, when Michaela went to her OFII medical visit to validate her visa, the only proof of address she had to give them was the address of the Formula 1, so now, printed on her passport as her address in France will forever be this god awful hotel. She definitely got the short end of the stick when she chose her bank and bank teller to open up her account, and almost had it closed on her by this snooty French woman who claimed she never got requisite forms that Michalea had in fact sent in on time. In December, she finally found a place, and moved in. The next hurdle was internet, which she started paying for in December but had a lot of difficulties with. This month, when she got back from the Christmas vacations, she tried calling the provider to tell them that her internet was not working properly. For the record, speaking on the phone in a foreign language is at least ten times harder than interacting with someone face to face, and I for one avoid the telephone at all costs, to the extent that I will spend an hour more to go to the place directly to speak with someone. When Michaela asked the man on the phone to please repeat something she didn’t understand, he in turn asked her if she expected him to repeat everything he had said because he didn’t have time for that. He finally agreed to come check it out, and when she asked about being reimbursed for the month that she had paid for without internet service he asked why she hadn’t tried calling sooner. She had. Why hadn’t she called again? She was away for the holidays. That wasn’t his problem.

Now, I don’t want to put down the French, because, as well described in previous posts, I have encountered nothing but genuinely nice people here who have opened up their homes to me and taken a genuine interest in my well being. I would ask anyone on the street for directions any day without fear of being snubbed, however, French people working in customer service, or in any position of power over the customer are a breed of their own. In the United States, I would say we operate under the assumption that “the customer is always right,” or even, “the customer will not give you their business if they don’t receive adequate service,” or at least, “if you want to keep you job you better be nice to the people who are giving you’re their money.” However, in France, the land of unions and strikes, an aggravated customer who wants to complain to your superiors does not instill that same kind of fear, as, you can just convince your whole sector to strike and guarantee the safety of your job, and maybe even manage to add on a few extra vacation days while you’re at it. As a result, if you want to get anything done here, you might just find yourself groveling at the feet of your internet provider, who poorly-installed the internet that you paid a full month without service for, just so that they could (please) come and reinstall it properly (thank you) for you. That same person might stop me on the street if they saw me with a map to make sure I’m not lost, but when they are behind their desk, telephone, whatever, you better be prepared to swallow some all of your pride to get what you’re looking for.

Then, on Saturday Michaela received a phone call from someone on her cell phone that went something like this (in French obviously):

Man: “Hello, is this Miss Oosh-lean-la?”

Michaela (Bucklin-Lane): No, I think you have the wrong number.

Man: Have you ever lived at Périgord Street?

Michalea: No, you really have the wrong number.

Man: Well, this is the police and we’re looking for Miss Oosh…

Michaela: OK, you definitely have the wrong number. Sorry, goodbye.

20 minutes later…

Man; Hello, is this Miss Boosh-lean-lane?

Michaela: Yes…

Man: Do you live at Périgord Street?

Michaela: No….

Man: The other possible address is Prahl Street…

Michaela: Oh, yes that’s me!

Man: OK, your building has had a fire we need you to come immediately.

Turns out the 3^rd floor of her apartment building (which is on a corner and thus, misleadlingly has 2 street addresses) had a serious fire. Luckily her things in her apartment on the first floor were not damaged but as the fire department was about to completely soak the place she needed to get her stuff out right away. When we saw her Saturday night after this ordeal, her response was “And I just got internet a week ago!” La pauvre. France just keeps trying to spit her out. Anyway, we are all sending Michaela lots of good thoughts and support. 

That's all for now, off to salsa tonight. Bisous et a bientôt!